AN INTRUDER.
When Anna Burns left her little brother near the garden wall, she turned
down the next street, and met young Savage coming from an opposite
direction. His face flushed pleasantly, and his eyes brightened as he
saw her.
“Miss Burns, how happy I am to have met you,” he said, turning back and
walking by her side. “I would have called, but was afraid of intruding
upon your sorrow. How is the dear old lady?”
Anna had been flushing red and turning white, like the sensitive, modest
creature she was, till he looked kindly down into her face, and asked
this question; then she lifted her eyes and answered him with a smile
that made his heart leap.
“Thank you very much! Grandmother is well, and happier than any of us.
She is so good that even grief seems to make her more and more gentle. I
never heard her complain in my life.”
“Still, this must have been a terrible blow.”
“It was! it was! But she yields—bends; resists nothing that God sees fit
to inflict.”
“And you?”
His voice was full of tender compassion. His eyes brought tears into
hers.
“I cannot be so good, my heart will ache; my very breath is sometimes
painful! Oh, sir! you cannot tell how I loved my father!”
“He must have been a superior man,” said Savage, gently; “a very
superior man, to have brought up a family so well, under what seems to
me great difficulties.”
“He was a——”
Anna broke down here—tears drowned her voice.
“Forgive me! I am cruel to wound you so; but it is not meant unkindly,”
said Savage.
“I know—I know!” faltered Anna, behind her veil; “but you cannot think
how noble he was—what beautiful talent he had. I think Joseph takes
after him; he begins to draw pictures even now.”
“Was your father an artist, then?”
“Yes; a designer on wood. He was just beginning to make himself known.
But he could do many things beside that. We all loved him so—and now he
is dead!”
Anna drew her veil close, and, for a time, the young pair walked on in
silence, unconscious of the course they were taking. They were aroused
by a carriage dashing past, in which a lady sat alone. She leaned
forward, revealing an eager face, surmounted by a bonnet of lilac
velvet, with masses of pink roses under the narrow front. The horses
moved so rapidly that Savage scarcely recognized the face of Miss Eliza
Halstead as she swept by; but Anna saw it clearly, and shrunk within
herself.
Miss Halstead had recognized Savage with a killing smile on her lips;
but when she saw his companion, the smile withered into a sneer, and she
seized the checkstring in fierce haste.
“Drive round the block again, fast at first, then slower,” she said.
The man obeyed, and dashing round the block, came upon the young couple
again at a slower pace. Now Miss Eliza leaned out, kissed her hand to
Savage, and searched Anna’s face through the veil that shaded it with
her vicious eyes.
“I thought so—I thought so!” she muttered, biting the fingers of her
canary-colored gloves till the delicate kid was torn by her teeth. “It’s
that creature, not Georgiana, who stands in my way. Oh! I have made a
discovery! It’s her! It’s the same girl that I saw at the fair. Some
poor seamstress or sewing-machine operator, or I’m dreadfully mistaken.”
The carriage moved slowly on as Eliza registered these convictions in
her mind; and before it was out of sight, Savage had forgotten its
existence, so deeply was he interested in the conversation of the young
girl who walked so modestly by his side—so completely did the feelings
of the moment carry him away.
They parted at last not far from Anna’s dwelling. Her hand was in his
for an instant; her eyes met his ardent glance as he whispered farewell;
and warm, red blushes dried up the tears that had been upon her cheek.
“I will see you again—I must see you again,” he said, while her hand
trembled in his; “without that hope, I should not care to live.”
These words, sincere and impassioned, were enough to flood her face with
blushes, and set her to wondering why the heart that had seemed so
heavy, rose and throbbed like a nightingale startled on its nest by the
song of some kindred bird.
With a light step and beaming face, the young creature turned into the
dark paths of her every-day life, and climbed the stairs which led to
her garret-home, lightly as angels tread a rainbow. The old lady looked
up when she saw her grandchild coming, and smiled meekly, feeling that
she would need such comfort; but she was surprised when Anna smiled
back, and, taking off her bonnet, turned a face that was almost radiant
upon her.
“What is it, love? What has happened, that you should look so bright, so
happy?”
“Happy? Am I happy, grandmother? No, no! It was but last night I told
you that nothing on earth could ever make me happy, now that he was
dead.”
“Yes, child; but God does not permit eternal grief to the young.”
“Grandmother,” said Anna, leaning over the old woman’s chair, that her
face might not be seen, “have you not always told me that God is love?”
“Yes, darling, God _is_ love.”
“Then, grandmother, all love must be divine—born of heaven?”
“Yes, child, all love is born of heaven.”
“Grandmother?”
“Well, my dear.”
“Did any one ever love you?”
The old lady’s hands fell into her lap, and clasped themselves tightly.
“I—I thought so once,” she said, in a low voice. “Yes, I thought so.”
“Did you ever love any one, dear grandmother?”
“Did I ever love any one? God help me, yes, I have; I——”
Anna flung herself on her knees before the old woman, struck to the
heart by her own cruelty. The poor old lady was trembling from head to
foot; her lips quivered like those of a grieved child; her heart was
troubled as the earth stirs when a lily has been torn up by the root.
“Oh, grandmother, forgive me!” cried the young girl; “I did not mean it.
Can love last so long? Is it rooted so deep in the life?”
A quivering smile stole over that gentle face.
“Do you think that love is only given to the young? That it is mortal
like the body? That it leaves the soul because bright hair turns to
silver on the head? No, no, my child! Love is the one passion which time
deepens holily, but cannot kill. The soul, when it seeks eternity,
carries that with it. There is no real life to the woman that does not
love.”
“Oh, grandmother! how solemnly you speak.”
“The love of an old woman is always solemn.”
“And of a young woman—what is that grandmother?”
“With her, my child, it is the blossom which precedes the fruit,—bright,
delicate, heavenly,—perishing, sometimes, with the first frost, or under
a warm burst of sunshine; but when the blossom falls only to shrine its
shadow in the core of the fruit that springs from it, changing itself
only to meet the sweet changes of womanhood; then, and not till then,
can the soul know how faithful, how true, how immortal love is.”
Anna bent her head and listened to that sad, low voice, which spoke of
love with such sweet solemnity. The blossoms of a first love seemed
opening in her heart, then, and flooding it with perfume.
“Oh, grandmother! how beautiful life is!” she said, with a deep sigh,
which had no pain in it. “I think the whole earth brightens every day.”
“Anna,” said the old lady, gently.
“Well, grandmother.”
“How long is it since the world has become so beautiful to you?”
“Oh! I don’t know; but it seems to me forever.”
“Still it is but a little time since we heard that my son—your father——”
“Yes, I know—I know. For a time all the universe was dark as night to
me; but now it seems as if my father had come back, and brought glimpses
of the heaven he inhabits with him. Oh, grandmother! why is it that I am
not unhappy? I know he is dead; I know that we are poor and helpless;
that this is a miserable room, with nothing lovely in it but this
precious old face, yet it seems like a paradise to me. I could sing here
as nightingales do among the roses.”
“Anna, my child, I fear this is love.”
“Love, grandmother!” cried the girl, in a quick, startled voice. “No,
no! not that! I never thought that it was really love.”
That bright, young face turned white as she spoke; and Anna’s eyelids
drooped suddenly.
“Oh, grandmother! what makes you say that?”
“I did not say it unkindly, darling.”
“You never do say any thing unkindly, dear grandmother—but this
frightens me. Am I doing wrong?”
“Doing wrong! There can be no wrong in an honest affection; but there
may be, and is, great danger.”
“Danger, grandmother—how?”
“I cannot explain—cannot even point out the danger; but this young man
is rich, proud, highly educated. His parents are said to be ambitious
for him beyond any thing.”
“Yes, grandmother, I suppose they are; and I am so lowly, so very poor;
so, so——”
The poor girl’s eyes filled, and her sweet lips began to quiver with the
tenderness of new-born grief.
“I did not think of them. I never thought of any thing, only——”
She broke off and covered her face with both hands.
“Only that he loved you. Has young Mr. Savage told you this, Anna?”
“I don’t know. Yes, it seems to me as if he had. How dark every thing is
growing. This room is black and shabby. I wonder he could ever come
here. I remember, now, the boys were playing with oyster-shells when he
came in, and they had no shoes on, poor, little fellows! He never would
have said those things to me here. Never, never!”
Anna buried her face in the old lady’s cap, and that little, withered
hand began to smooth her hair with gentle touches of affection, that
went directly to the young heart.
“Be quiet, be patient, my dear child. What have I said that you should
sink into such despair?”
Anna lifted her head, and put the hair back from her eyes with both
hands.
“Oh, grandmother! what do you mean?”
“Only this, my dear. If the young man loves you, the obstacles which I
have pointed out will be overcome; for as there is nothing on this earth
so pure as love, neither is there any thing so powerful. Through the
strong affection which a mother feels for her son, even that proud lady
may yield. Do not let the poverty of this room, or of your dress, weigh
too heavily upon you. It is well that he should have seen you thus at
first; and remember, a modest, good girl, well informed, and
well-mannered, is the match of any man in a country like ours.”
“Dear grandmother!” exclaimed Anna, gratefully.
“Now tell me,” said the old lady, “what did this young man say to you?”
“Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell. Every word is in my heart; but I could
as soon give you the perfume from a rose as repeat them understandingly.
I know that it is true; but that is all.”
“And enough, if it, indeed, prove true. But listen, I think it is the
boys coming home.”
Yes, it was Robert and Joseph rushing up stairs with unusual
impetuosity. You might have known by their deer-like leaps up the steps,
and the joyous struggle to outstrip each other, that there was good news
on their lips.
“Oh, grandmother! we’ve done it! We’re men of business, both of us. Four
dollars a week for me, and Josey unlimited, but magnificent. He’s got a
voice. I wish you could hear him. Twenty-five cents, clear cash, in an
hour. That newsboy wouldn’t touch a cent of it. Oh! he’s a capital
fellow, a gentleman every inch of him—that is, in heart. He got me that
place; he’s been a benefactor to me, a prince, a first-rate fellow! Kiss
Joe, grandmother, I’m getting a little too large; but, but—no, I’m not.
I shall die and shake up if somebody don’t kiss me. Only think, four
dollars a week. Hurrah!”
Robert flung his new cap up to the ceiling, and leaped after it with the
spring of an antelope. Joseph had both arms around his grandmother’s
neck, and was pressing the twenty-five cent note upon her.
“It’s all mine, every cent. You and Anna can spend it between you; buy
new dresses with it, or shawls, or a pretty bonnet for Anna. Don’t be
afraid, I can earn more—lots and lots more. He’s going to give me some
of the papers that have pictures on them to sell; perhaps father’s
pictures may be among them. He didn’t think that I should ever sell the
beautiful things he made, did he? But I shall, and it will make me so
proud to see people admiring them. Kiss me, grandma, and say that you’re
glad.”
“I am very glad that you come home so happy, my children—but what is it
all about?” said the grandmother, kissing Joseph on his pure white
forehead, while she reached forth her hand to Robert.
“Oh! it’s just this. I’m engaged as an errand-boy in a first-rate house
for four dollars a week; and Joseph there—who’d believe it of the little
shaver—has got a newspaper route ready for him; and he’s ready for it.
Between us we mean to support you and Anna first-rate, and dress her up
till she looks like a pink. I mean to get her a velvet cloak, like that
Miss Halstead had on at the fair, the very first thing, and long, gold
earrings, and—and every thing. Indeed, I do. Don’t we, Joseph?”
“That’s just what I told grandma when I gave her that twenty-five cent
bill,” said Joseph, magnificently. “Said I, get dresses and shawls with
it. Didn’t I, grandma?”
The grandmother smiled tenderly, smoothed his hair with her palm.
“And who is it that you are engaged with, Robert?” she said; “you have
not told us any thing yet.”
“No, I haven’t. I wonder what’s the matter with me? It’s with Gould &
Co. Splendid, I can tell you. Warehouse, as they call it, a hundred feet
long. Oh, Anna! I wish you could see the young gentleman—he is splendid.
But grandma, what is the matter with you? How white you are! How your
poor hands shake! Dear me, what is the matter?”
The old lady’s head had fallen forward on her bosom; the borders of her
cap quivered like a white poppy in the wind. She grasped some folds of
her dress with one hand, as if to steady its trembling.
“Grandma, what is the matter?”
The old lady lifted her wan face, and looked at the eager boy bending
over her vaguely, as if she did not quite know him.
“Oh! grandma, grandma! what is the matter?”
“Nothing—nothing!” gasped those thin, pale lips. “Never, never mind me,
children, I am not—not very well.”
Anna, who had taken off her bonnet and shawl, came forward now, and,
taking the old woman in her arms, laid her head on her bosom.
“She is tired, Robert; your good news has taken her unawares.
Grandmother is not strong.”
“I—I didn’t mean to hurt her,” said Robert, penitently. “Who would have
thought it?”
“You have not hurt me, dear,” answered the faint old voice. “See, I am
better now.”
“Wouldn’t a cup of tea do her good?” whispered Joseph. “It almost always
does.”
“That’s a bright idea,” cried Robert. “Fill the tea-kettle, Joe, while I
make a fire. Dear, me, who’s that, I wonder?”
A knock at the door had startled the little group, for such sounds
seldom interrupted them in their garret-room.
Robert opened the door, and a young man, whom Joseph recognized at once,
stepped into the room, lifting his hat as he entered.
“I beg pardon,” he said, glancing around the apartment; “but chancing to
see my young friend there—pointing to Joseph—enter this house, I
ventured to follow. We entered into a little negotiation regarding some
fine sewing, which I am anxious to complete. Is this young lady the
sister you spoke of, young gentleman?”
Joseph retreated slowly toward his grandmother, and stood looking at the
stranger, turning white and red, like the frightened child he was.
“She is my sister,” cried Robert, flinging down a handful of kindling
wood on the hearth, and coming forward. “But just now I can support her
handsomely myself, on what Mr. Gould pays me. He wouldn’t have followed
me home like that. We are very much obliged; but sister Anna has all the
fine work she can do, and never takes any thing of the kind from
gentlemen—at any rate, unless they are very particular friends, indeed,”
added the boy, with a blush, remembering that Anna had done some work of
the kind for young Savage, and seemed to enjoy the doing of it very
much, indeed.
“Then your sister does, sometimes, accept such work as I offer?” said
the young man, bowing to Anna. “I am glad to hear that; it saves me from
feeling quite like an intruder. May I hope, young lady, that you will
make me one of the exceptions?”
“She don’t want any work,” interposed Robert, coloring crimson. “I’ve
got an idea above that for her, and I mean to carry it out, too. Our
Anna, sir, is a lady, if she does live up here under the roof.”
“No one could doubt that for a moment,” answered Ward, casting a glance
of warm admiration on the young girl.
Here the old lady arose, still pale, but gently self-possessed.
“Will you be seated,” she said, with quiet dignity, “and let us
understand what it is that you desire of us? My grandson seems to have
met you before.”
“Yes, grandma, I saw the gentleman at Gould & Co.’s, and he seemed as if
he would like them not to take me; hinted that I wouldn’t carry a lot of
money from one person to another honestly, and hurt my feelings,
generally. I don’t know what he wants to come here for.”
Here Joseph gave his grandmother’s dress a pull, and whispered, as she
bent toward him, “It was he who paid me the twenty-five cents. Give it
back to him—give it back to him.”
The old lady patted his head, and turned to the stranger.
“If I understand, you wish to have some sewing done, and thinking my
grandchild wants work, bring it to her. We are much obliged; but she is
very busy just now, and it will be impossible for her to undertake any
thing more than she has on hand.”
“But at some future time, madam,” said the young man. “I can wait.”
“It will be impossible to promise for the future,” answered the old
lady; “as the persons who employ my child now must always have the
preference. Perhaps we had better think no more about it.”
Ward did not rise; but sat balancing his hat by the rim between both
hands. He evidently wished to prolong the interview; but the old lady
stood quietly as if she expected him to go, and he could not muster
hardihood enough to brave her even with a shower of extra politeness.
All this time, Anna had not spoken a word; but sat by the window,
looking out like one in a dream. Even the intrusion of this strange man
could not drive her from the heaven of her thoughts.
Ward arose, almost awkwardly, for the gentle breeding of that sweet old
lady had been a severe rebuke to the audacious ease with which he had
entered the room.
“Then I will take leave,” he said, glancing at Anna, who was far away in
her first love-dream, and did not even see him. “Of course, I am
disappointed; but will hope better success when I call again.”
No one answered him; and the young man went his way crest-fallen and
bitterly annoyed. He had certainly found out where the young girl lived,
still nothing but humiliation had come out of it. Gould, too, had almost
snubbed him that morning. The thousand dollar note was some compensation
for that; but these people in the garret, poor and proud—how should he
avenge himself on them? How debase the pride that had so humbled him? As
he went down stairs, a paper on one side of the outer door attracted his
attention. A room to let—that was all; but it struck the young man with
a most wicked idea.
“Inquire in the front room, first story,” he muttered. “Yes, I’ll do it
now; that will give me a right to go in and out when I please.”
He went into the front room, first story, and came out with a key in his
hand, remounted the stairs, and entered a room directly beneath that
occupied by the Burns family. It was a mean room, scantily furnished,
looking out on the chimneys and back yards, which have already been
described. But the glimpse of blue sky and a rich sunset, which could be
obtained from the upper window, was broken up by flaunting clothes-line
and bare walls here. A more lonely place could not well have been found.
But young Ward cared nothing for this. A paltry lie had secured him a
legal foothold in the house. How he would use that privilege would be
developed in the future. He had vague ideas, but no plans. The people up
stairs had attempted to freeze him from the house, and he would teach
them that it could not be done. That was about all he calculated on at
the time.
Ward went back into the front room, first story, where he found a tall,
gaunt woman seated in a Boston rocking-chair, working vigorously on some
woollen garment which she called slop-work. She wore no hoop, and her
scant dress fell short at the ankles, revealing a pair of men’s
slippers, which had once been red-morocco, and a glimpse of coarse yarn
stockings.
“Well,” she said, pressing the side of her steel thimble against the eye
of her needle, as she took a vigorous stitch, “suited with the premises,
or not? Would a gone up with you, only hadn’t time. Ten cents apiece for
a blouse like this don’t give a woman many play spells.”
“I like the room, and will pay two months’ rent in advance,” said Ward,
taking out his porte-monnaie.
“Then that’s settled,” answered the woman, nodding her head as he laid
the money down. “Good-day! Good-day!”